


About Willpower

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Community: rounds_of_kink, Incest, Loss of Control, M/M, Pre-Series, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 19:30:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had started mid-afternoon with an argument. (Pre-series.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	About Willpower

**Author's Note:**

> Kink and prompt for Halloween 2013’s mini-round at rounds_of_kink: Loss of control / Tenacity.

It had started mid-afternoon with an argument. Nothing original, neither in the origin nor in the reason of said argument: Michael reproaching Lincoln for having no willpower over something stupid, Lincoln pointing out that willpower wasn’t always the solution to everything.

Michael should know that willpower isn’t always the solution to everything. If it was, they wouldn’t end up pressed together on his ridiculously large and expensive bed on a regular basis, right? Because it wasn’t like they had never tried to stop doing that, and willpower had done no good so far. Michael rolled his eyes, Lincoln promised he would prove what he claimed, and they resumed their activities. No big deal.

Except for the part where Lincoln intended to deliver on his promise, the sooner the better. Sometimes, his thick-skinned brother could take umbrage for the silliest thing: this is how, three hours after their discussion, Michael has been stripped down and pushed onto his bed, and Lincoln’s whispering into his ear, almost sing-songing the words.

“Come on, Michael.” His voice is a low rasp that sends shivers down Michael’s spine, his lips wet and warm against the heated skin of his neck. “Michael... Mike... Mikey... You know you wanna.”

Michael locks himself: squeezes his eyes, grits his teeth, closes his ears to Lincoln’s taunting.

He tries to, anyway. It’s not that easy not to react to the warm pressure against his backside and to the string of nicknames. The string of nicknames is the worst: how Lincoln makes it sound so dirty is beyond him.

He doesn’t budge, though. He’s on all fours on the bed, his hips barely canted up, the tip of Lincoln’s erection brushing against him; hard, burning hot and thick, and so very close. It wouldn’t take much, a tiny backward movement from him or a small forward thrust from Linc, but he doesn’t budge.

Linc is aiming for the former because he’s a bastard. A tenacious one, who wants Michael to yield and surrender, no holds barred. Michael is a master in tenacity, but he’s being outwitted tonight: Lincoln won’t back off on this. Something that happens too frequently when Lincoln considers that he’s acting for the good of his brother. Michael has a hard time figuring out what can be defined as ‘good’ in those circumstances but whatever. He has more urgent issues at hand.

The barely-there touch against him lightens even more and slides down. Lincoln’s cock skims over his buttocks and down his balls, and nudges his own shaft. It’s playful, and that makes Michael mad. This is a game for Linc, but _he_ can’t manage to take it as lightly. Lincoln acting that way is a constant reminder that he is the little brother here, the needy brother.

A dry thumb rests against the entrance to his body, just rests — no caressing or fondling — the contact so tender and casual, intimate, that his thighs and arms start shaking out of exhaustion. Not exhaustion because of his position, exhaustion because of need. Surely Lincoln could call it a victory and be satisfied with that, with knowing what kind of effect he has on Michael?

He doesn’t, of course, because there is nothing new here. He already knows what kind of effect he has on Michael. Figuring it out or even having Michael admit it isn’t what he’s after so Michael tries another approach: a lingering glance over his shoulder, a quick rub against Linc, and “I know you want it too, as much as I do.”

“You’re right,” Lincoln concedes.

Michael smirks to himself, head hanging between his upper arms, backside still not moving.

“You’re right,” he repeats pensively, “and I’m _this_ close to losing it, Mikey. I’m thinking, maybe I should just jerk off and come on your back or on your pretty ass.”

Well. Fuck.

“You’d like that? Me coming on your pretty ass? Don’t you want my cock in it before?”

Michael licks his lips. His resolve not to give in is faltering. Fast. With the mood he’s in tonight, Lincoln is capable of doing it, stroke himself, jerk off and come, spray Michael with his release and leave him unsatisfied, if Michael doesn’t comply with his requests.

His heart beating in his throat, Michael nods his head, and whispers “I do.” Once, twice, louder, enough for Lincoln to reposition himself steadily and wait.

“Take it, then.”

He’s hesitant at first. It feels so desperate that way, with Lincoln on his knees behind him but not doing anything to help him. He pushes his ass back and up until the round head of Lincoln’s cock breaches him. Lincoln’s chuckle morphing into an aroused gasp is a reward; so is, at last, the promise of fullness, of Linc filling and stretching him. He takes only the very tip inside him at first, partly for teasing, partly because the angle is unusual and awkward; not enough resistance met for a solid move even though Lincoln is strong and locked against his ass. He’s cautious. Now that he’s started, he couldn’t bear to feel Lincoln escaping him.

 _Show me how much you want it_ , Lincoln had demanded when they started this earlier tonight _._ _Fuck yourself on me_. Michael grinned in his face and pointed out it didn’t sound like Lincoln to need this kind of reassurance. The half-smile on Lincoln’s lips indicated it had nothing to do with reassurance, and everything to do with their earlier conversation, and shit, because Michael had realized at this moment what Lincoln wanted: Michael losing control, needing something so much that no willpower, no tenacity or self-control, would help him.

Lincoln’s cock is stretching him, firmly inside him and yet threatening to slip out at the smallest clumsy roll of hips. He moans, his distress at that thought tantamount to his excitement, and he thrusts back, clenching around Lincoln, luring him deeper and deeper.

There’s something liberating in the raw lust, in admitting and showing off how much he needs this. He drops from his hands on to his elbows and shoves back into Lincoln, writhing around the hard flesh lodged inside him. Perfectly indecent. Not that what they usually do has a tad of decency, but surely, wriggling on his brother’s cock, sliding up and down its length, has to take the cake.

Lincoln’s not such a bastard, after all, ‘cause he slides two huge and gentle hands down the front of Michael’s thighs, providing him more leverage. He won’t do more for now, but if the short nails digging into Michael’s skin are any indication, it takes him one hell of an effort to stay as still as possible.

It’s still not enough. Lincoln may be secure and steady on his knees, he may help, but a sway remains, an inevitable oscillation under the force of Michael’s thrusts. Frustration builds up in the pit of his stomach at the elusive control he has over the situation. He moves erratically, without any grace or synchronization, nothing of the rhythm he can usually put into their fucking. He just _moves_ , trying to feel as much of Lincoln as possible, circling his hips and slamming back and...

He’s too rough with himself and with Linc, and they will both hurt tomorrow, but who cares? Right now, the perspective of later pain only fuels his resolve and his arousal. How could he _not_ want feeling the memory of Lincoln tomorrow, the burn of the stretch, remembering the slapping of hot and damp skin against equally hot and damp skin?

... and suddenly, Lincoln’s hands aren’t on his thighs anymore, they’re not gentle anymore. They grip his midriff and pull him back as Lincoln pushes forward and vice versa, moving him in counterpoint to Lincoln’s thrusts.

He collapses face first into the bedding, not enough strength left in his arms to support him, ass held up in the air by Lincoln who’s pounding relentlessly into him. Linc is catching on to his self-enforced immobility of the last half-hour by sheathing himself to the hilt and withdrawing almost entirely, moving hard and fast. Michael’s whole body rocks like a rag doll’s under the assault. So good. So infuriating, too, because Lincoln’s still in charge, showering filthy encouragements onto Michael and chuckling when he begs and shouts into the pillow. He begs and shouts quite a bit, in Lincoln’s defense, body aflame and skin too tight to contain him, ass hurting pleasantly and erection a massive ache bobbing between his thighs.

He comes at the first touch of Lincoln’s hand around his cock.

Right, no, it’s worse than that: he comes at Lincoln demanding that he come. Tension and pleasure finally bursting out of him, he slicks his brother’s hand and whimpers when Lincoln spreads that slickness all over his lower stomach.

“Told you it would be better with my cock in your ass, didn’t I?”

Michael vaguely nods and discards the self-satisfaction dripping from Linc’s words. The peak of his orgasm is over, but pleasure hasn’t totally worn off and Lincoln is petting him, milking him for everything he has. He whispers praises, promises “Gonna lick you clean, after, Mikey,” and Michael doesn’t care whether he actually will or not. The thought itself is enough for a last spurt to dribble onto Lincoln’s fingers

“Good boy.”

Lincoln takes his time now, the frenzy gone. The frenzy was for Michael; the frenzy was Michael’s. Michael is the one who lost it tonight. Lincoln’s the one who rolls his hips evenly, idle and having all the time in the world. Michael wants to look over his shoulder and watch Lincoln, see the pleasure on his face, but he can’t even move his arms, even less raise his head and twist his neck. It’s okay. Lincoln’s grunts of pleasure and the scent of his arousal fill his senses as deeply as Lincoln’s cock fills his body. He smiles when Lincoln comes inside him with a barely rougher jab and a sweep of tongue on his shoulder, when the gooey fluid trickles down and adds to the mess on his skin and in his sheets. Slow, lazy, almost soft. Same when Lincoln collapses and lies half on him and him and half on the mattress, sated and damp with sweat, panting against the side of his face. This is almost something he envies from his brother, this ability to act as though he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“I thought I was supposed to fuck myself on you?” he says eventually, his voice rough and exhausted.

“Yeah. Well. You did it. You deserved a reward.”

Indignation finds its way into Michael at that, almost managing to make him move. Almost.

“A _reward_? You conceited jerk.”

Lincoln slaps his ass. Like his ass doesn’t hurt enough already. “It sure felt like one from my standpoint. You didn’t hear yourself begging, Mikey. That was nasty.” He rubs his cock in the crease of Michael’s butt. “In the best possible way.”

Michael would have blushed if he had cared and if blood had had the time to come back north; blood is still kinda pooling south. He doesn’t say anything and bathes in the kisses Lincoln peppers on his neck and shoulder, the gentleness a complete contrast with the rest of the night. That’s Lincoln; he can mix the dirtiest and the sweetest and leave Michael breathless, his throat tight with pleasure and affection.

“So about willpower—”

Michael summons up enough energy to kick his shin.

END  
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